


(he died to make men holy) let us live to make men free

by queenofthestarrrs



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avengers Family, M/M, Steve Rogers Feels, Wakes & Funerals, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-22 02:30:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14298813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthestarrrs/pseuds/queenofthestarrrs
Summary: It was like watching a broken movie reel. Clip. Pause. Rewind.





	(he died to make men holy) let us live to make men free

“So, uh, is this some kind of old timers’ thing that I don’t understand? Like what are you wearing?” Tony asked from his seat inside the car, gesturing to Bucky’s outfit. His voice was a horse monotone and lacked all of his usual playfulness. “Hate to tell you, but this is a little bit of a faux pas. We wear black nowadays. Classic. Slimming. Universally flattering.” 

Bucky looked down at his shirt. The pastel yellow was light and cheery against his carefully pressed khakis and his deep brown belt. His hair was cut shorter than it had been in the past few months. He had spent the better part of the morning slicking it back with a jar of gel he had found mysteriously in his bathroom. He let muscle memory do most of the work until there was no difference between the person who stared back at him from the mirror and the person who stared back at him from the picture Steve kept by their bedside, one that was taken in 1942. The watch, Steve’s watch actually, he had put on as he was making his way out of his hotel room. 

The watch was old, achingly old in the way that Bucky wasn’t even sure if it still worked. Hell, he wasn’t sure if it had ever worked, but it had belonged to Joseph Rogers. It had been Joseph’s, and when he had passed, it was one of the few things, besides a legacy, that he had left for his son to grow into. Steve had worn it to every important occasion that Bucky’s fuzzy memory could recall. He remembered it hanging off his pale wrist at their Confirmation, their high school graduation, the handful of neighborhood weddings they had been invited to, and, of course, his mother’s funeral. Steve had treasured the stupid thing. He had kept the thing as immaculate as possible. Even when they were on their last dollar and had been too proud to ask Bucky's parents for more cash, he refused to pawn it. He said he would have rather starved. Bucky screamed at him, asked why he would have said something like that. Didn't he know there people who were starving? 

Bucky had regretted that.

So when the morning came Bucky couldn’t, wouldn’t, leave it behind. 

Tony was already rummaging through his pockets when Bucky hoisted himself into the waiting limo. He shakily pulled a monogrammed flask out and knocked it back with ease. The engraved letters “AES,” clear abbreviation for Anthony Edward Stark, caught the sunlight and left a blinding streak of white light in its wake. The tension in the car was palpable. It was like sitting next to a livewire; one wrong move and they were all goners. Tragedy, Bucky had learned, tended to bring out the worst in people. 

“It’s eight o’clock in the morning, Tony. Put it away.” Bruce told him, shielding himself for the reflection, as Bucky slid into the empty seat next to Natasha and Sam. Bruce’s glasses were covered in smudges, and they did little to cover the dark circles underneath his eyes. His salt and pepper hair stuck out in every direction. His shirt was uncharacteristically untucked. He looked, Bucky firmly noted, even more like a human disaster than he normally did.

Tony narrowed his eyes. “Lay the fuck off, Bruce. We can’t all be on the ‘all-natural ancient Tibetan meditation’ bandwagon. Some of us like to drown our sorrows the old fashion way. Some of us like to show feeling.” 

Thor winced, or at least, he appeared to wince as much as one could with an eyepatch. He looked almost comically large in his seat next to Tony. His shirt was almost bursting at the seams, the buttons straining. He had to keep his head bent in order to keep his head from smashing the top of the car. Even his feet looked unnaturally huge in comparison to Tony’s. If this day wasn’t so damn sad, Bucky would have laughed.

“Just because the rest of us aren’t drinking to excess,” Bruce pointed a finger accusingly, but his voice was steady and calm. “Doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t have feelings. He was our friend too.”

Bruce rearranges himself, one hand steadily on Natasha’s knee, the other still pointing. His shoulders seemed broader this way, his whole body taking up more space. “What it does mean is that, unlike you, we have some sort of semblance of self control.” 

Thor put his hands up defensively. “Steve was indeed my friend, and today I wish to honor him for the brave man that he was. To that, I can agree. But don’t dare to drag me into this mess. I have absolutely zero desire to be apart of it.” 

“Oh, don’t worry about it, big guy. You’re not. Apparently it’s just Bruce that has a problem with me.” Tony patted Thor’s arm. Almost deliberately, he took another swig from the flask. 

“Wasn’t that a bit childish, Tony?” Natasha finally spoke up. 

“Oh! Now you’re going to lecture me. Okay, I get it.” Tony lashed out. “What are you going to tell me about next, Natasha or Natalie or whatever the hell your name is? Is it the importance of being honest? The practice of nonviolence? Or maybe-.”

“Don’t talk to her like this, Tony,” reprimanded Bruce. “If you’re problem is with me, then she’s not apart of this.”

“Okay, actually he has a problem with me.” Sam himself spoke, pointing another accusing finger towards Tony. “Don’t sit here sardonically and act like you’re all self justified. Don’t act like you’re the only one who ever cared about Steve. Does anyone remember the time that Tony threw us in jail and sent Steve on the run? Because, you know, I do. Quite vividly.”

Tony stared cooly at Sam, fingers tapping away aimless on the side of his flask. “I thought we finally agreed to let bygones be bygones.” 

Sam crossed his arms. His elbows practically dug into Natasha’s side. “I agree with Steve to let bygones be bygones. Seeing as he isn’t here, I don’t think that my agreement needs to be upholded.” 

Behind the red-hot anger, Bucky noticed the heaviness of grief. He reached out for a moment, hand on shoulder. Sam leaned into it, cool fabric under a sweaty palm. It felt comforting. 

“I don’t need you to defend me, Bruce. And Sam, enough.” Natasha muttered under her breath and turned her attention back to Tony. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I don’t have much room to talk. I lied to you when you think I didn’t have to. My hands are dripping in blood, but yours are soaked. You might not have pulled the trigger like I did, but you made the gun. In my mind, that makes you just as guilty.”

“I don’t have to listen to this.”

Natasha shrugged. “Then don’t.” 

“I wear black everyday,” Bucky blurted out. 

Tony took another sip from his flask and fastened the cap. He slipped back into his pocket. “Thanks for contributing to the conversation. That was real helpful, pal.”

“No, you asked me a question. You asked me what I was wearing. It’s just that I wear black everyday.” He fiddled with his buttons and smoothed out nonexistent wrinkles from his pants. Natasha placed her hand on his knee. It was small and dry but a welcoming presence. “I just wanted to wear something different for Steve. Besides, he liked-”

Bucky paused. It was the first time Bucky had ever referred to Steve in the past tense. Steve liked to draw before he liked anything else. Steve liked the Sunday special from a little bistro in Midtown, pancakes topped with baked apples and whipped cream. Steve liked tracing little patterns on Bucky’s forearm, dotting it with kisses as he went along. Steve liked lazy afternoons in crowded museums and bright Sunday mornings singing with the local church choir despite the fact that he couldn’t hold a tune if his life depended on it. Steve liked a lot of things, more than Bucky could have listed. But he’ll never be able to say the words ‘Steve likes’ again.

“Steve liked bright colors.” He whispered.

The silence in the car was heavy and uncomfortable. Each of them couldn't help but fidget.

“We’re going to be late,” Bruce noted absentmindedly as he grasped onto Natasha’s other hand. “We won’t make it if we don’t leave soon.”

Almost on cue, the door flung open. They had been expecting Clint, the only one who had been running late when they had left the hotel. Instead, Pepper Potts carefully climbed in and sat down next to Tony. Her hair was swept up dramatically into an elaborate updo but her makeup was minimal. Her dress was simple, just black, but modest and well cut. 

Steve would like-. Bucky winced painfully. Even in his own head, he had to correct himself. Steve would have liked it. 

“Alright,” Pepper was breathless as she rattled off, ”before you ask me, yes, Clint, T’Challa, and Wanda are coming. They were still running late when I was getting ready to leave so I told Rhodey to put them in his car. Last I knew, Clint was looking for his hearing aids, Wanda was finishing up her makeup, and T’Challa was on the phone with his mother and Nakia. Something about having to call off a group tutoring session or something. Can we go? Are you guys all set?”

Thor nodded. “Correct. We are.”

Pepper must have given some kind of sign to the driver because as soon as she put her hand up the limo rumbled to life. They all lurched forward as the driver peeled out of his parking space. Natasha’s hand was still resting on his knee. He covered it with his own. As his calloused fingers intertwined with her soft ones, bits of bright blue nail polish peeking out against the color of pale flesh. She didn’t forget.

“Maria and some of her staff are already there.” Pepper reviewed. “We talked on the phone. The two of us decided that Bucky should be the one who receives the flag from the President. That’s just what seemed fitting. Then we said that we’d take the flag and hang it up in the tower as long as you all are okay with it. I called the movers last night from my cell. They’re coming next Wednesday so that gives us about ten or so days to clean all the stuff out. We haven’t decided what we’re going to do with his things though. I wanted to bring that up to you. When I was talking to Scott the other day, he thought we should have an auction and donate the money raised to a children’s charity or a veteran's organization. Although I’m not entirely sold on the idea. I think it would be better to put it all in storage or a museum or something. I just can’t imagine selling all of his stuff. It just doesn’t seem right to me. Oh, and, Bucky, what the hell are you wearing?”

Sometimes she and Stark were so alike he couldn’t tell who was imitating who. 

Bucky only shrugged.

They weaved in and out of heavy DC traffic in near silence. The only sound were the people who had started lining the streets, chanting. The city was packed as a country came together to mourn the loss of one their own. That was another Bucky had noticed ever since he “woke up.” America was much better at being depressed than it was at doing anything else. When it mourned, it tended to band together. In the face of hardship, there weren’t parties or divisions. Everyone only used one word to define themselves: American. 

Some of the tension melted away as they moved closer and closer to their final destination. In its place was a kind of quiet melancholy. Thor glanced out the window. Tony had leaned his head against Pepper’s shoulder. She tapped away on her phone, the blue light illuminating dark circles. Bruce had his eyes squeezed shut, and Bucky couldn’t tell if he was meditating or had a migraine. He and Natasha huddled close to each other despite the fact that Natasha's hand was still on Bucky's knee. 

“Do you know what it’s like?” Tony wondered out loud. He sipped absentmindedly at his drink again. He must have fished the flask out when Bucky wasn’t watching. “You know, like to die?”

“Do you?” Thor asked, his eyes still staring out the window.

“It’s beautiful.” Tony said dreamily. “I was never a man of faith. I’m still not. You should already know that. I don’t believe in heaven or hell. I haven’t been to church in years. I don’t have any proof. To be honest, I still can’t tell if it was just a hallucination due to lack of oxygen. All I know is that when I was up there, in that hole, I closed my eyes, and I just wasn’t here. And if what I saw was real, then it was beautiful.”

Tony suddenly looked embarrassed, like he just realized what he was saying. For the first time since Bucky met her, Pepper looked like she wasn’t in control of her emotions. Her eyes were glassy with tears. She reached a thin hand to Tony’s face, almost as if she was confirming that, yes, he was real. He was real and safe and his heart was still beating.

Natasha demurely turned away as if she was letting them have their privacy. The rest of the followed in suit.

This was forgiveness. With a turn of her head, all the cruel words between the two of them dissolved. The fact that Stark had implied that she was a liar and a murderer, the fact that she insinuated the same, just minutes earlier was struck from her ledger. That was one way Natasha was different from Bucky. She was always gave her forgiveness out freely.

Only if she had extended that luxury to herself. 

“Thanks,” Bucky whispered softly. Tony’s face remained blank. “Steve deserves a good place. Steve deserves-. Steve deserved a lot. Steve deserved a lot more than the world gave him.”

The limo came to a screeching halt. Thor grunted as he slammed back into the seat. His blonde hair, growing out once again, fanned out dramatically behind him. No one spoke. They just stared at one another. The weight of loss heavy and now, in front of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, all too real.

Pepper moved first. She pushed a few wisps of strawberry colored hair out of her face. her hands move in a flurry to straighten out the bottom of her skirt. She cleaned a smudge of her shoes.

“I’ll go first,” she announced as she crawled towards the door.

Pepper Potts wasn’t a hero, not in the traditional way at least. She didn’t fly a metal suit. She couldn’t throw a shield or summon thunder. She didn’t know how to kill a man with only a shoe or how shoot an arrow or how disassemble a lock in less than ten seconds. Although she was bright, her intelligence was average. She had never worked for a secret international organization. She had never been contaminated with radiation. She was a completely ordinary woman at a somewhat ordinary job with a borderline ordinary life. But Pepper Potts had always been extraordinary where it counted.

Thor followed her, muscles working beneath thin white fabric. Bruce and Tony shuffled their way out. They walked together, shoulder to shoulder, everything forgotten, everything forgiven. Sam paused as he stepped out of the vehicle. Natasha offered him a watery smile and a nod. For the first time, only Natasha and Bucky remained inside the car. Their hands were still intertwined with one another.

“I’m sorry,” offered Natasha in Russian. The syllables were familiar. The words were familiar. He remembered hearing them. He remembered saying them. They just didn’t feel right for the situation. He squeezed her hand harder with his own “good” one. She didn’t flinch. “Are you ready?”

“No.” He responded in English.

“That’s too bad.”

The two of them climbed out unready to face the day.

The stairs were nearly empty. A few people clad in black, private security officers, milled around the bottom. A group of police officers who looked painfully young, too young to be doing this, patrolled the perimeter. Thousands of other people dressed in black and red and white and blue were held behind bright yellow police barriers. American flags were being waved. A song that sounded suspiciously ‘Battle Hymn of the Republic’ was being mumbled by the crowd.

Bucky stood there, dumbstruck. It reminded him of the Fourth of July that he spent in Coney Island with Steve. All that was missing was fireworks and a slice of apple pie a la mode split between the two of them. It was Steve’s fourteenth birthday.

Two weeks later, Steve had been laid up with the flu. The doctor thought he was going to die. Bucky could still remember the fear when his mother sent him and his sister, Becca, to say their goodbyes. He could still remember the way Becca cried, tiny gulping sobs. He can still remember praying with Sarah on his knees, begging God to spare Steve. He’s too good to go yet, Father, Bucky had petitioned. Take someone else instead. 

The thought was still bitter in his head.

“Come on!” Tony shouted from the door. He was waving his arms, gesturing to the inside of the church. “We need to go.”

The group, Steve’s friends, his friends his family,, streamed into the church. Pepper was kissing cheeks of people Bucky didn’t recognize. The men with Maria bring up the rear, following them. Sam hugged him when he saw him, something that Bucky leaned into. And it was not until Sam was already in and seated did Bucky realize that the shoulder where Sam had buried his face was wet. Bucky pretended like he didn’t catch Tony stop and take one more look at the crowd. Other people loved Steve too, Bucky confirmed, or they loved the person they thought Steve was. Either way, the turnout was impressive. Steve would have thought that it was excessive. 

Natasha lead him inside, never letting go of his hand. The church was nicer than Bucky imagined it would be, and it was packed to the brim. People were milling around, chatting quietly. Journalists were glancing at cell phones or clicking through photos on their cameras. 

The line to see the casket nearly reached the back, but Bucky waited. He would have waited if the line wrapped around the building. Natasha and Tony, who had slipped from the larger group, waited with him.

Pepper lead the rest to the two front pews on the left. They filed in, tripping over each other. Sam and Rhodey were seated already, leaning back in the pew and saying something to each other. Thor looked around while Bruce paged through the heavy hymnal in front of him. Pepper was the only one who was kneeling. She had head bowed and her hands folded.

Bucky didn't feel moved to pray. He just shuffled along when the line moved and kept quiet. God knew what kind of person he was. 

"Battle Hymn of the Republic? Seriously? That was Steve's favorite? Even in death, the old man is still too ironic for me to handle. What's up next? On Eagle's Wings?" Tony stuffed his hands into his pockets, chuckled lifelessly, and kept pushing forward. 

It was only when Tony had mentioned it did Bucky notice the tenor voice rising over the quiet din of the crowd.

"As Christ died to make men holy," the chorus belted out. "Let us die to make men free!" 

Bucky had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Captain America loves Battle Hymn of the Republic and My Country Tis of Thee. Little Steve Rogers from Brooklyn loved Ave Maria because it reminded him of his mother. 

When they get to the front of the line, Tony went first because he always went first. 

He reached his hand out and grazed his hand across the top of the oaken coffin. His lips were moving, but Bucky didn't hear what he was saying. Tony paused before he turned away, eyes wet, looking almost guilty. He hardly noticed when one of the journalist snapped a photo.

Natasha was next. She didn't say anything. She just straightened the flag draped across the coffin.

Bucky was last. He didn't, couldn't, say anything. How could you wrap up nearly a century of history in a few words? All he could do was press his lips against the oak and walk away. The casket was cold and unyielding under his chapped lips. 

"That's going to be all over the news tonight. And what they have to say about might not be things you want to hear. Are you sure this what you want?"

"How are you going to change it? I already did it."

"I can call in some favors." Natasha whispered breezily. 

Bucky shook his head. "He's dead, and I have nothing left to hide."

The mass was in English because that was the way Steve had liked it, said it made God seem a little closer. The priest was a young man from the local church Steve had attended when he had lived in DC. The last dying sunlight streamed the clouds and through the stained glass windows before the forecasted rain. It painted the oak coffin in reds, oranges, and yellows. A few soulful voices rose over the rest of the incoherent and off tune mumbling as the chorus lead them in Prayer to Saint Francis.

Steve would have liked this.

The young priest shook when he read from the Bible. His voice quivered. This was probably the largest and most famous crowd he had ever spoken to.

So Bucky helped.

“Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also. And you know the way to where I am going.” He whispered along with the priest and memories came rushing back like a tidal wave.

Snippets of blonde hair glowing in the summer sun, the taste of sunsweet strawberries on a summer porch, the smell of New York in the rain, Christmases together huddled near the fire, the musk of old books, cold, thin arms wrapped around his waist, the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, a ghost of laughter, the ice of the Alps, the gentle caress across his cheek, the last nights in bed. It was like watching a broken movie reel. Clip. Pause. Rewind.

For the first time all day, just as the light streamed across his face, Bucky allowed himself to cry.


End file.
